Fing Fang solemnly shook the pigtail which hung down his back. Like many of the Chinese, he had read a great deal, and was a kind of philosopher in his way.
"Nephew Chang Wang," he observed, "I know of a creature (and he is not far off at this moment) who is always fishing for gain—constantly catching, but never enjoying. Avarice—the love of hoarding—is the iron ring round his neck; and so long as it stays there, he is much like one of our trained cormorants—he may be clever, active, successful, but he is only fishing for others."
I leave my readers to guess whether the sharp dealer understood his uncle's meaning, or whether Chuang Wang resolved in future not only to catch, but to enjoy. Fing Fang's moral might be good enough for a Chinese heathen, but it does not go nearly far enough for an English Christian. If a miser is like a cormorant with an iron ring round his neck, the man or the child who lives for his own pleasure only, what is he but a greedy cormorant without the iron ring? Who would wish to resemble a cormorant at all? The bird knows the enjoyment of getting; let us prize the richer enjoyment of giving. Let me close with an English proverb, which I prefer to the Chinaman's parable,—"Charity is the truest epicure; for she eats with many mouths."
"IT'S an ill wind that blaws naebody good, Master Harry—we maun say that," observed old Ailsie, Mrs. Delmar's Scotch nurse, as she went to close the window, through which rushed in the furious blast; "but I hae a dear laddie at sea, and when I hear the wind howl like that, I think—"
"Oh, shut the window, nurse! Quick, quick! Or we'll have the casement blown in!" cried Nina. "Did you ever hear such a gust!"
Ailsie shut the window, but not in time to prevent some pictures, which the little lady had been sorting, from being scattered in every direction over the room.
"Our fine larch has been blown down on the lawn," cried Harry, who had sauntered up to the window.